Poetry

Clinging, the kitchen remembers my world in black and white, damn the color.

I refuse to admit I am starved for refuge.

Mom-capped Mom. She’s tired, slumped, surrounded by six little ones.

Everything we read, if we read it deeply enough, changes us.

Bees love catnip; they go crazy for it; afterward, we drowsed, full of honeyed sweetness like the bees that browse

In the plaza, he pirouettes, juggling, glittering mysteries.